


The Interpretive Dance of X-Box Live

by puffinperfection



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Eridan POV, Eridan and Sollux are dorky teens on X-Box Live, F/M, Humanstuck, I can't tag to save a life, M/M, More eventual trigger tags to likely come, Sex Talk, Short chapter length to be made up for by number of chapters probably, Trigger warning: slurs against homosexuals, and Eridan is a genuine priss, sollux POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-08 12:03:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puffinperfection/pseuds/puffinperfection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You meet by some twist of fate, also known as your friend Karkat. You hate everything about one another, but you can't leave each other alone. You talk, and it's all yelling. You personally message each other, and it's like the other doesn't even read what you say. So obviously neither of you want to be the first to admit just how deeply you care about the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oh, no!

**Author's Note:**

> Because sometimes dancing can't solve all of your problems.  
> Like how newbies are brats.  
> Or how they make you feel bad about something totally different.  
> ("Oh, No" copyright to Marina and the Diamonds)

**Aquarius Grove, Florida**  
 **May 30, 2013 at 5:56 PM**  
 **Aquarius Grove Community Center**

_'I know exactly what I want and who I want to be._  
 _I know exactly why I walk and talk like a machine._  
 _I'm now becoming my own self-fulfilled prophecy._  
 _Oh!_  
 _Oh, no!_  
 _Oh, no!'_

Bright, upbeat pop music echoed off the walls of the cramped recreational room as a collection of teenagers took a spin - literally. A spin, followed by a few arm movements that you don't know the name of. You're one of the teenagers in the collection, the only male in the bunch, to be exact. You're the only male, and you're proud to announce that you're one of the most talented dancers in this cheap dance class. You've always flounced around this rec room like the cock of the walk, with more attitude and energy than half of the girls combined. This song - Marina and the Diamonds' "Oh, No" - has had you on your toes with practice with an extremely difficult routine, yet the difficulty does not stop you from sweeping your nonexistent skirt up like a fucking princess. Because you totally are royalty material and a silly dance routine cannot and will not dampen your spirits.

Your name is Eridan Ampora, and you are the most feisty male dancer that the Aquarius Grove Community Center has ever laid eyes upon.

Of course, dancing with spunk isn't your only interesting feat. You've also got a knack for knowing useless facts when it comes to military history. You have an interest in learning about only the most notorious rulers, because you know that their stories hold victory, defeat, manipulation, and most importantly, intriguing tales of romance. You'll admit that you're a bit of a sap when it comes to any and all tales of intriguing romance - not just ones involving military experts. As long as you can remember you've had a passion for magic, but you know it's fake. Like an imaginary friend, magic is something you fuss over for the fun of it. You also enjoy playing around on X-Box Live like the sixteen-year-old that you are, and your extensive research on both common and complex strategy has helped you do fairly well as you scream at other players for being complete numb skulls.

Dancing with spunk just happens to be the feat that everyone else happens to make the biggest deal out of.

A shrill screech of "bigger smiles" roars from your tiny dance instructor as you hop from one foot to the other. You figure that it wasn't aimed at you, yet you widen your smile for the sake of the show. Because there will always be the possibility that she was directing her comments at you, and you know that you can't disappoint her. She's your one chance at moving onto the regional competitions, as she only does have two recommendation spots to fill. You have to snag one of those spots, and you know already know who one of those is basically reserved for.

You let your line of sight wander to the girl with the regional reservation. Feferi Peixes, the girl you have affectionately dubbed Fef and is five feet and five inches of pure perfection, is currently dancing her sweet heart out with her colorful chiffon wrap skirt swishing around her thighs. She's extremely loose and carefree, yet she somehow still looks amazing and her movement is almost flawless. She's one of the things you won't admit to being jealous to, and no, you're not jealous because it's socially acceptable for her but not you to wear a skirt (and why does everyone always assume that?). You're jealous because she's just a naturally talented girl, and you're jealous because this stupid routine - the one that the instructor taught you in a day then expected you to master as her way to weed out the weak - seems to have no negative effect on her. You, on the other hand, are flouncing about here while trying to remember which move is done here and which one is done there. God, how does your best friend get to be so flawless? What did you do that caused you to not deserve that? You just want to be amazing like that...

_'Oh, no-oh!'_

Your thought process is interrupted by a collision with one of the other dancers in the class, one who you never bothered to learn the name of because, well, to face the facts, she's nothing amazing. The music shuts off the moment you two collide, and you both hit the floor and you fear for the worst - a wannabe dancer pile-up. Luckily that's an avoidable fate, and you can't believe your current situation has been predicted by Marina and the Diamonds, of all things, because let's face it, "oh, no" is definitely right. The girl is almost immediately up and whining, coining the entire accident on you while you linger on the tile floor. You won't deny that it is your fault, because you were the one admiring your best friend's performance, though you don't appreciate the fit she is throwing. Even you know that's she's being way too out-of-line and over-dramatic, and that's saying something. As your brother persists on saying, you are the prince of over-dramatic.

You sputter out an apology that actually means nothing as you bring yourself off the floor and dust the dirt from the seat of your pants. This class is going to be over at any time now, and you refuse to be bothered by some special snowflake who doesn't know her place in this class. Newbies, you think, are always a challenge. And you know you instructor won't take their bullshit either.

"Kid, you're fine, really," your miniature dance instructor assures the girl with disinterest. "You, Ampora, watch yourself. I won't have you knocking new students around."

She won't take your bullshit, either.

"And a message for all of you..." The four-foot-nine woman claps her hands together. "You may go. I can't say I'm proud of the results, but you have been acceptable enough. I expect all of you here at five o'clock on Monday. Now, out of my sight." The newest additions to the class seem almost hurt by your instructors words, but you know that she's just telling it as it is. They're not as amazing as they think they are, and that's what life is going to teach them.

You're the first person out of the rec room, it doesn't take you a second to grab your drawstring bag and get your ass out of there. It also doesn't take Fef a second to catch up to you and pick right at you, asking you what's wrong, why you seem so sad, why you won't tell her why you're upset when you're upset. You try to persist with generic responses that range from "there's nothing wrong" to "can't I even leave dance class without being hounded?" However, Feferi knows her place as your best friend, and you even know that it's only healthy for best friends to pester one another until someone gets the answer they want. In this case, Fef's the one in this relationship that's getting her pester on.

You're actually upset this time, though. And it's for a stupid reason, yeah. It's always for a stupid reason, though. You're upset because the best part of you stupid life has just ended because of some stupid new kid who willed you never to want to go and dance again. You're upset because now the summer will drag on like a snail because some special snowflake thought she could rain on your parade and she succeeded. You're upset because you let yourself feel horrible about how you did because of some girl who doesn't have half the talent you do.

But you can't tell Feferi this, because she'll go on about how you should never give up, and frankly, you don't want to hear it.

"Eridan, please!" Her voice is shrill as she clips a perfectly manicured hand onto your shoulder, and you stop in your tracks (because ignoring her when she obviously means business is like asking for execution).

You sigh and relax your shoulders the moment she removes her hand, then turn to face what may as well be the lecture of a lifetime. Her eyebrows are furrowed, lips in a firm pout, and if you didn't know any better you might be scared of what was coming. But you know your best friend, and she doesn't exactly scare you, never really has. You've always had a few inches on her.

"Yeah, Fef?" You do nothing to hide the absolute boredom that you can tell is doing more than simply lacing your tone. That just caused Fef to become even more flustered. Her eyes narrow to tiny slits and her fists take their position on her hips. Now you know that she means even more business, and you're caught in between being unnerved and laughing at her false intimidation.

"Why are you always so secretive about how you feel?" she asks, and you can hear the concern underneath her frustration with you. You had been looking forward to nothing, as you had thought this talk would be something new. But no, it ends up being the same old, same old, and you roll your eyes a bit (which only irritates her even more). "Puh-lease don't start with the attitude, I'm trying to be serious!" It takes everything in you to bite your tongue and not just blatantly say, "You don't look too serious from up here."

"Eridan, you know that I worry about you. You're always such a closed-off person." You personally don't know what the hell she's talking about. You generally wear you heart on you sleeve. "Seeing that you even openly refer to me as your best friend, I should at least have some part in knowing what's going on with you." You keep your lips sewed shut as you turn on your heel and advance forward. You do not want to talk about this. "No, stop it, don't pout! You know, I'm only confronting you because I care!"

You don't stop, half because you don't want to here it and half because you're a bastard who thinks her frustration is kind of comical. She obviously does not think the same thing, and once again her hand is on your shoulder. For some reason, those fuchsia-colored nails look more menacing than they should.

You stop but don't turn to face your best friend. "My God, can't a man even think without having someone riding his coattails?" That comes out before you can stop yourself, and the entire community center lobby seems to go deathly silent and aware of the fact that you just addressed Feferi like a total douchebag would. Your breath hitches as you reach up and pry your shoulder from Fef's grasp then start hurrying towards the exit. Great, just great. More unnecessary attention on you.

There's no doubt that Feferi is following you out, the jingling of the many little trinkets on her dance bag gives her away. There's nothing you really can do or will do to stop her, she can have your head now. Because you're a douchebag and you will accept that for Fef's sake.

Only when you're out the door do you stop and open your mouth to hash out a reply to your best friend, but she holds up a stubby finger to stop you. "Look, you know I worry about you," she says, and all you can think is something along the lines of no shit. "I'm just constantly asking if you're alright because you're just always so moody, and I'm really scared that you're going to hurt yourself. I'm just trying to look after you." She then proceeds to wrap her arms around her back and snuggle her head into your chest, giving you something you dubbed The-Overly-Affectionate-and-Extremely-Tight-Feferi-Hug-of-Death some years back (she doesn't know that much, though). You awkwardly pat her on the back in return because let's face it, you guys are sixteen. You feel platonic hugs of death are a bit immature at this age.

She finally unwraps herself off of your torso with a bright smile which kind of rubs off on you, and you admit that you kind of had to force a bit of it to stay. Because a smile is all she wants to see, right?

"Well, I'll talk to you when I get home," she says, halting the conversation and again interrupting you. "Drive carefully!" She turns around, her mocha-colored ponytail almost slapping you in the face. You mutter a good-bye as she bounces to the shiny white jeep that she got for her sixteenth birthday, and you start in the opposite direction towards the battered old Volvo thing you got. You find it and tug the handle to open it, not even having to bother to get a key out. You don't lock it, because you actually wouldn't care if someone hijacked it. Besides, it's not like you're stupid enough to keep your valuables in your car.

Sliding into the front seat, you noticed the vibration of your cell phone at the bottom of your drawstring bag. You fish it out despite the fact that you're not in the mood to speak to anyone, because what if you accidentally bottom-of-the-drawstring-bag-dialed someone? Those always ended awkwardly.

**Karkat:  
** **ARE YOU GETTING ONLINE TODAY OR NOT?**

Oh, it's just Karkat asking you if you were going to get on X-Box today. Of course you planned on it, today had just been chock-full of bullshit. You may or may not have also promised him a session with a couple of his friends that you had actually never even met, but you didn't think he had planned on being serious about that, because you didn't even know that he actually had friends beside you.

Because it's Karkat, you do end up replying. Either you reply, or he bothers you about it for the rest of your stupid life.

**You:**   
**yea**   
**im just a busy guy**

Well, that's a lie. You're actually not busy at all, aside from dance and being forced to meet up with your older brother for brunch. But that would probably sound bad to people that actually go to your school, and Karkat may as well be like them outside of his angry little shell. A couple of little white lies won't hurt someone who lives all the way up in Boston, will they?

You refuse to think that you're telling him that because you want to seem like someone you really aren't to yourself.


	2. Basket case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because who needs knock-off psychiatrists when you have both a best friend and an X-Box.

**Dualville, Arizona**  
 **May 30, 2013 at 2:56 PM**  
 **Dualville High School**

"You've been taking your medication as usual, haven't you?"

"Yeah." No. Hell no. That stuff makes you incredibly drowsy, so you don't see the point. What's the point of taking a medication that's supposed to even you out if you can't even be conscious enough to enjoy it?

"Is everything alright at home?"

"Yeah." Define alright, you want to say. But you won't. This sorry excuse of a guidance counselor doesn't need to be meddling into you family life.

"Anything else you believe could be triggering this?"

"No." God, you hate that word. Triggering. What the hell is that even supposed to mean? As far as you're concerned, the word 'trigger' appeals to guns and shooting. Duels, right? Take ten steps back because you're ready, baby, aim then fire?

"Are you being honest, Sollux?"

"Why wouldn't I be honest?" More like why would you be. "I'm probably just under the weather. Arizona summer heat, right? Fucking crazy." You crack a stupid little smile that should read "I-Am-Honest-And-Totally-Not-Calling-You-A-Bullshit-Excuse-Of-A-Psych-In-My-Head", but of course it won't because it doesn't even take an idiot like you're older brother Mituna to know that that smile is more of a "Believe-Me-Because-This-Whole-Situation-Is-Stupid-And-I'm-Bored" kind of look. This counselor isn't fooled, like many others haven't been, but she doesn't protest.

In fact, she doesn't even make a sound. She just breathes a long string of irritated breath through her nose and pushes her swivel chair away from her desk. Your eyes lock with hers as she rises. "It... seems that the school day is almost out. Why don't we call it a day?"

Translation: We still have four minutes until school ends but fuck all, you're not being helpful.

"Of course." More like thank the Big Man in the sky. This lady's pissing you off by trying to dig deep into your "feelings" whatever, and this rooms smells too strongly of Febreze, but not the good kind. And frankly, it's making you claustrophobic. You stand up and brush past the old lady to get to the propped open door. "Thanks for the session, or whatever."

The first thing you do when you step into the office hallway is take in a giant breath of air that smells like parchment. These little "guidance sessions" have never been your cup of tea; they never really seem to help you talk about what's going on in your fucked up mindset. They only ever seem to teach you absurd little facts that you pick up that you'll never need (like today's: exactly how much Fabreze is too much), and you're pretty certain that you've started thinking that "hey, maybe these things are worse than being in eighth period physical education." And yeah, you're flattered by the school's little stunt of acting like they give a fuck, but if you were a parent, you wouldn't want your tax dollars spent on old women trying to convince the "special" kids that they want to help. What about those permanently deflated volleyballs in the gym? You'd totally want your money spent on Little Susie having the privilege to think she's actually decent at something when really fucking everyone can play volleyball.

But now you're mentally rambling to yourself. The old lady back in the Fabreze Chamber said that wouldn't help you be happier. Oops.

After inhaling all of the fresh parchment you can, you make a point to escape this whole annex of offices, hauling the heavy door open after giving the secretary a curt nod. Following the weekly routine, you slowly inch your way towards the main exit. Slowly, easy does it now...

_BRIIIIIIIIIIIING!_

And there it is, the bell that assures you that you can leave the school building without facing suspension. As per Thursday usual, you're the first one out, no books or anything because hell, school's out in a week. No intelligent teacher would assign homework. Hell, not even that bio teacher of yours that you're quite certain has drank away the last of his functioning brain cells would assign homework. Because people have their limits, right?

You stop at the bike rack and cross your arms, thinking _and now we play the waiting game._

She'll be here any second now, and you're used to waiting for her, as she is always the less eager one to leave the school, not to mention that you were pretty much banished from the school for the day by some old psych coot. You've got nothing wrong with waiting for her, because you're kind of patient. At times you are, at least.  
  
Well, when it comes to her you are.  
  
"Oh, Sollux, there you are!"

Your head snaps to the side at hearing you name, and as always, speak of The Devil and in they stroll. There she is, running towards you in all of her fuzzy-haired glory. She's smiling brighter than the sun itself and hasn't even changed out of her gym clothes yet. "I was waiting for you at your locker, you're generally always there by the time the bell's off..." She hasn't finished her run to you as she speaks, and normally you don't like people who do that, but Aradia? She's your exception. "Did'ja have..."  
  
"Therapy," you spit, finishing her sentence out. "You know, the Thursday norm."  
  
Aradia hops by your side as you start in the opposite direction of the school, trying to get as far away from that one hundred-year-old, three storied, brick laden terror  as you can. She follows, throwing an arm around you shoulders; you don't object because Aradia is you only exception for a lot of things. She smells heavily of cinnamon, her signature perfume, and lightly of sweat, the smell that always lingers on the DHS gym uniforms even after a power washing. But the perfume, your second favorite scent, only bested by honey. You may be a man who likes the smell of his best friend, but you're a man who loves the smell of his honey even more.   
  
Yeah, you heard that right. Best friend. You're sure that the two of could may be something more, but truth be told, neither of you want to. She's got her heart set on some actor that you can never remember the name of, and you're not at all concerned with sexuality. You're just into computers and games and bees and practical jokes and your friendship with Aradia.  
  
It's not like the either of you would gain anything from becoming "more than" anyway. She knows everything about you, and you know everything about her. What else is there to gain, the satisfaction of a fuck well done? Yeah, no. You're quite okay with empathizing with her under a best friend status.   
  
"Ah, well, to The Devil with what that old lady thinks!" she exclaims, knowing well that you despise the sessions with a passion. You snort, half because she is so right and half because The Devil seems to come up in your conversations often. "You know, she can think what she wants about what goes on in your noggin, but until you're given a formal title, don't you think there's jack wrong with you."   
  
Her optimism is lovely, it's too bad that it hasn't rub off on anyone else. Hell, it's hard to even understand how she's so perky, her sister is crass and has a rough attitude, and you, her son of a bitch best friend... well, must you go? You can't even latch on to her perkiness and "Keep-Your-Head-High" outlook, because you admit that there is something wrong with you. You can't even remember what it was called, you weren't paying attention when your dad forced you to go to those actual therapy things, but there is in fact something up with your head. Something you never told Aradia, and something that you never plan to.  
  
"Yeah, I guess," you inquire halfheartedly because hell, you're tired. Guidance is exhausting, seven or so hours of school is exhausting, hating everyone and everything is exhausting, god dammit. You're lucky that your house (or, excuse you, apartment complex) is less than a mile from your school, otherwise that bench you just passed might look a tad bit more inviting.  
  
As per usual, the two of you stop in front of the four-story complex and just sort of stand for a while, neither of you really want to say good-bye because good-bye is way too permanent, that's what the two of you decided back in eighth grade. It's no miracle that you still stick to that in the last weeks of sophomore year.  
  
"So, um," you search for the right thing to say, "want to come upstairs?"  
  
"Can't, actually," she says, giving an apologetic look. "I have to help Mom with moving some things out of Damara's old room. But I'll call you, okay?" She starts off down the sidewalk again, waving over her shoulder until she disappears behind a tree. And even then, you can still hear her yelling, "See ya, Sollux!"  
  
Once you're sure she has ceased with her yelling, you hurry into the building. The receptionist offers you a hello as you pass through the lobby, which you disregard as you hurry up the stairs. You have a bit more important matters at hand.  
  
Ah, X-Box Live. The third highest priority in your life, only best by practical joking and Aradia.  You've been using the thing since it was a thing, and destroying bastards on Call of Duty has sort of become your vice, not to mention you've made a few good friends from it. Like Karkat, for example, who you better knew as carcino-geneticist. He was the reason why you were hurrying upstairs now, actually, he said he wanted to try out that dumb game he sent you as an early birthday present, and you weren't going to refuse him that much.   
  
The very second after you've unlocked the front door you kick your shoes off and run into your bedroom, switching the television and X-Box to 'on' and signing into your account. Lo and behold, carcino-geneticist is online, so you shoot him a quick message.  
  
His reply is simple, it's the name of the server he wants you to join once you've logged on. You hurry to get onto the game because you know it is no good to keep Karkat waiting, and goddamn, this game is slow. You beat the controller against you hand in impatience even though you know it won't speed up the process, and a breath you didn't even know you were holding is let out when the main menu finally shows up.

The game looks dumb from the main menu, but again, because you're a totally amazing friend you play it. You log onto the multiplayer menu and your fingers fly as you type in the name of his server, and there it is, the sole one with that name. He and two other people are logged in. Good enough for you.

After clicking onto it and waiting another eternity for it to load, you find yourself in the middle of a battlefield type setting. Assuming you already know the controls, you don your headset and turn it on, and start your guy out by running around.

__Bang!_ _

Your guy keels over a bit a graphic blood shoots from his knee, and into the headset you hiss, “Who the fuck just shot me?”

In return you get a gravelly laugh, Karkat cursing about oh, my fucking God, I knew this wouldn't work out and a few indecipherable noises of panic. You grimace at the absence of a reply until...

"Um, sorry, that was me. I was just testing out my... testin' out my dude.”

That voice is one you haven't heard before, it's a slower drawl with a weird kind of emphasis on the “W”s that you had never heard before. You furrow your brow, muttering, “Yeah, well, don't fucking shoot me again, just watch it. God, it's not that hard to not shoot your teammate.”

“Fine,” that same voice grumbles, “I won't _thoot_ you again. I'm _thorry.”_

It takes everything in you not to hurl your controller at the wall, because if there's one thing no one teases you about, it's you lisp, god dammit. That asshole must have some balls if he's going to mock you like that.

(And yeah, that gravelly voiced guy is laughing at his mockery of you, but he's just the gravelly voiced guy. You've played with him a bit and he just laughs at everything, he's just that mellow.)

For the rest of the session it's you and Karkat trying to explain to the other two what they're doing is wrong, and by the time you've ended you've gotten more mockery and sent out more threats than you've ever had to at any intercity high school you've attended, and all were aimed to that guy with the wavy “W”s. You're exhausted by the time you finish, and when you get back to the X-Box menu, you throw your controller onto your pillow without shutting anything off and bury your head in you hands. What an asshole he is. You hope you never have to put up with that again.

You're shocked back into consciousness of your surroundings when your television speakers _ding!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, after about five weeks of stressing about everything and anything, I've got this up and posted, yay!
> 
> As you can see, this is just a crappy chapter, I tried too hard and it's kind of OOC but hey, I tried. 
> 
> Again, any and all complaints or questions can go to iamseahorsedad.tumblr.com.
> 
> Keep an eye out for my next publication (you won't regret it, I swear), and until then, I'll see you later!

**Author's Note:**

> Okiee... I've been at this thing for about two weeks now, and I think it's finished - the first chapter, at least. It'll be a slow fic, and all of the Eridan chapters will be twisty and turn-y because, as I see him in this, he's moody, and, like from my personal experiences as a teenager, one thing totally throws him off into another. I'm trying to stay as in character as possible with it, though, and I think I'm doing well? But I'm not actually sure. There is a lot more to this after a bit, I can promise that much. I'm trying! (:  
> This fic will also have a lot of texting/messaging, which will always be bolded, text proceeded by the sender's name (or you, if the character of focus is the sender). Any questions? The best place to send them would be my Tumblr (50shadesofnepetaleijon), as I'm not 100% sure how to work AO3.  
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
